


birthright

by saraheli



Category: Block B
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraheli/pseuds/saraheli
Summary: Courting a prince, even the most compliant one, is not easy business, especially not when he’s fallen for the peasant girl from the village that folds his linens.





	birthright

Jaehyo had known you since he was in that ripe gap between knowing how to speak and not quite knowing when to stop. You were among his only friends: sneaking in each morning with your mother and, while she worked in the kitchens, you made friends with the young prince in the courtyard. You knew you weren’t supposed to, but your mother simply couldn’t pull you away from the gold-plated boy that made you smile so brightly.

Soon enough, in the age that toed the line between what knowledge you believed you had and that which you certainly did not, you were inevitably discovered. Your mother was reprimanded; you worried that she would be let go and that you would both starve, but neither of those things happened. You were, in spite of your young age and sheer lack of experience, forced to join the workforce of the royal court where they could keep your “dirty civilian fingers” away from their future.

They would never know, however, that they had failed so gallantly to do so. You slowly became the one that kept clean all of the gears that worked in Jaehyo’s every day. You drew his baths, delivered his meals, oversaw his studies, and, your favorite of all of these chores, switched out his linens every morning. As the two of you grew older and the days between the present and his courtship grew fewer, this time in the wee hours of the morning before any breakfasts were served or training was required became a pool of apricot solace beneath his chamber windows where you would sit and swap stories of your barely twenty-four hours apart.

These meetings continued until one fateful morning when you found Jaehyo already awake and pacing in his nightclothes upon your arrival.

“My lord?” You asked, pausing abruptly at his doorway, wrapping your fingers tighter around the linens in your arms.

He turned from his place by the window—your window—and you were struck by how handsome he was. You always were; how could you not be? His features were delicate and soft as if they had been drawn in the air by the most skilled artist. His nightshirt lay half unbuttoned against the honey of his skin, revealing how smoothly it laid over the lines of his torso. His pink lower lip twitched in discomfort and the rising light of the morning behind him illuminated the warmth that radiated from his disheveled state.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” his eyes became more round when he looked to you, his body relaxing beneath the weight of your gaze, “I’ve been awake for a while.”

“Is something the matter? Are you ill?” You asked, rushing to set the linens on a chair. You approached him and gently touched the back of your hand to his forehead to feel for a fever or cold sweat. He let out a disgruntled sigh and moved away from your touch.

“You know what today is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” you nodded your head slowly, pressing your hands together, “It’s your birthday, my lord.”

You smiled a bit to yourself, but it quickly faded when you noticed the lack of change in his expression. He pursed his lips.

“And how old am I?”

That had been the day he had reminded you how far out of reach he really was. When he came of age that day, he reminded you that he would begin courting princesses of the neighboring kingdoms, that he was floating so high above you that you  would have to soar to so much as touch him: that no matter how much he adored you, his heartbeat and burned for you, he would never belong to you.  

Jaehyo married within the year. During the process, he seemed nervous—he always did. He shifted uncomfortably and laughed too loudly and pulled his hands beneath the cuffs of his shirts. He paced in his chambers and mumbled to himself, louder when he was alone and almost silently when you were close; he did his best to make sure that you couldn’t hear. However, once it was done, he seemed to shrink in submission as if he had been previously fighting something within himself that had recently won against him.

He looked so beautiful that day. You were the one that dressed him; you always were. You pulled on his finest suit and pinned gold to his collar and fastened a cape to his shoulders. Your fingers brushed across his forehead to move his silky hair away from his eyes, those dark caverns of heat that threatened to lull you to sleep with each glance, and you didn’t allow yourself to look. You couldn’t let yourself whist after him, not even now when the two of you were alone.

“You’ll be coming with me, you know,” he said, and his words were certain despite the clear quiver in his voice. He took in a breath, “There’s no way I’d leave here without you.”

“I belong to your father, my lord,” you replied automatically. It was how you had grown to speak with him. You had to keep your distance.

“Since when do you call me that?” His face tensed as he watched you, begging internally for you to just look at him.

“Since I’ve served you,” you took your hand back to fold before you, “I have called you my lord since it became my job to make your bed. After that, it was improper for me to call you by your name.”

He stared at you then. How could you think that the rules were more important than the sound of his name? How could you think that saying the name of someone he hoped you love was punishable?

“I’d like you to use my name,” he said softly.

“My lord,” you tried to force firmness into your voice, tried to make yourself sound strong against his obviously crumbling resolve that threatened to bring yours with it, “You know why I can’t do that.”

He did, but he more than anything wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to know that all of this time spent, since his days before royalty meant rules and birthright meant breaking, hadn’t been wasted on loving someone so desperately that hadn’t loved him back. He wanted to know that, if he couldn’t keep you by his side, your words would stay with him, your scent and flavor, too.

“Please,” he breathed, finally moving to take your hand in his, “I don’t have a lot of time left, I…”

You then, against the wishes of your aching heart, met his eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes that finally swallowed you.

“Jaehyo,” your voice threatened to break, “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” His thumb rushed to caress your cheek, throwing caution to the wind in what he believed would be his final moments with you.

“Because I loved you, and I shouldn’t have,” you replied honestly, surprised at the solidity of your words. Your voice didn’t sound like yours.

“I-”

“It’s time, my lord,” the creaking of a door and a guardsman’s voice cut through the moment cooly, drying up what tears had gathered in your eyes and adhering them to the back of your throat for later.

Jaehyo stared at you again as if he were waiting for you to say something that would somehow change everything. He found himself wishing that he had been born somewhere else and then cursing himself for it. He found himself wishing you had been instead, but he cursed at that, too. Nothing, no amount of twisting and flipping, would dare change the distance that kept him from you, and now he could feel that for certain.


End file.
